


the eyes of busy fools

by sabinelagrande



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale & Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Brief Crowley/Original Female Character (Good Omens), First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Reading Poetry - Freeform, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The Blitz, Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens), dirty poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 11:09:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20114134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: A few hundred years in Aziraphale's bed.





	the eyes of busy fools

It's an unseasonably cold day, but the party that Aziraphale is attending is in full swing anyway. The ladies are mostly wrapping their shawls about them tightly and carrying on; men's attire is always slightly on the warm side anyway, so the soiree continues unabated. Aziraphale is aware that there is political manoeuvering going on, because there always is, but he's staying out of it, sticking with the convivial side of things.

Currently, he's sitting in a chair off to one side, making his plans concerning when he's going to perform the blessing he came here for; he also came here for the food, but he considers that a side benefit. A few words in the right place and he can go about his business, perhaps after a few more snacks and another glass of champagne.

It's almost not a surprise when Crowley appears, walking out from behind Aziraphale. "Hi there, angel," he says, sitting down on the chair next to Aziraphale and lounging in a most improper way.

Crowley is wearing the very latest attire, as he often does, making Aziraphale look a bit stodgy by comparison. At his neck, he's wearing a painted brooch, as is the fashion. This one is rectangular, with what are probably false diamonds around the edges. The brooch shows the image of one blue-gray eye and its eyebrow; its expression is somehow noticeably haughty despite its diminutive size and limited scope.

"Hello, Crowley," Aziraphale says primly.

"Here for business or pleasure?" Crowley says.

He considers, as he often does, whether to tell Crowley of his intentions; this one seems innocuous enough. "The cellist needs a whisper in his ear, whereupon he will realize the path he's going down is the wrong one and turn to liturgical music."

"And become a great composer of hymns, I take it," Crowley says.

"I know you think it's boring, but his music will be transcendent, moving hearts across the world," Aziraphale says. "That's the hope, anyway."

"Seems simple enough," Crowley says.

"I assume you have some foul work to do," Aziraphale sniffs.

"A little," Crowley says. He inclines his head towards a young woman, and Aziraphale recognizes her as the daughter of the host, the one who has not thus far been able to make a match. "Orders to get a little more hands on than usual."

"Her?" Aziraphale says. She's slight and lovely, her dress showing off her decolletage beautifully, and Aziraphale feels a surge of negative emotion that he wishes he didn't have a name for. "Surely you can't."

"Why not?" Crowley says. "She's practically an old maid these days, and she never gets to have any fun, if you follow me."

"Seducing virgins is ghastly," Aziraphale says, a little horrified.

"Why is it any worse?" Crowley says. "She's going to have her first time with somebody who smells nice and treats her with respect." 

"And then she's going to go to Hell," Aziraphale says, even though Crowley does indeed smell nice, like violet and clove.

"She might, but she might have done anyway," Crowley says. "Temptation works better on people who aren't quite good, though it's more satisfying if they are." Aziraphale gives him a reproachful look; even despite his glasses, he can tell Crowley's rolling his eyes. "I'm not going to go in there and rape her."

"So you'd stop if she said no?" Aziraphale says, raising his eyebrow.

"I mean, first I'd try to tempt her to keep going, self-respecting demon here," Crowley says. "But if she still said no, of course I'd stop." He leans forward. "Between you and me, she's not going to say no. She wants this desperately. You can feel it coming off her."

Aziraphale feels hot all over, so he takes a sip of champagne, hoping it will help; it does not. "I don't wish to know any more about it," he says.

"Fine, fine," Crowley says. "You're no fun."

"Angels aren't fun," Aziraphale says, an article of faith.

"See you around," Crowley says, standing up, and Aziraphale watches him go. He almost misses his cue for what he actually came here for; the music has now stopped, and he rushes over, hurriedly imparting the good word to the cello player, who looks appropriately contemplative.

By the time he's done, Crowley is already speaking with the host's daughter, who's blushing prettily, prettier than Aziraphale does it by far. As Crowley goes off with her, Aziraphale realizes she has dark eyes. The knowledge only makes him angrier.

He goes back to his shop, up into the small room where he keeps his personal effects and the bed where he doesn't sleep. He carefully removes his clothing, setting it aside, and lays down, already regretting what he's about to do.

Onanism is a sin, but Aziraphale commits it anyway. He doesn't seem to have a choice, his body working without him. He tries just not having anything to touch, but it seems to crop up anyway. He thinks about bright yellow eyes as he pushes his fingers into himself, about how it could be if _he_ just laid Aziraphale down and covered him, took him slowly and sweetly and how Aziraphale hopes desperately he has come to deserve. It's not enough, never enough to compensate for the void he feels, but it's comforting, at least for a moment.

Aziraphale feels ashamed whenever he does it, as is the proper procedure. He knows She doesn't watch him all the time, but She knows, as She knows everything, that Aziraphale lies in bed alone and wishes for a demon to take him.

\--

Aziraphale lets Crowley into the shop, the two of them moving quickly to get off the street. They really should be in the shelter underground, but Aziraphale's pride and dislike of crowded spaces won't let him do it. Crowley says it's because it's too much like Hell, and in fairness, if the shop does get bombed, Crowley will just end up back there anyway.

Aziraphale hopes dearly that the shop won't get bombed. It's all happening too quickly for him to assure that it won't. It would take a higher authority watching out for him, not one lone principality, and in a time of such devastation, Aziraphale would never do something so cruel as to ask for that.

"I could do with some gin after that," Crowley says, following Aziraphale as he sets the books of prophecy aside and enters his living space. There happens to be a conveniently placed bottle, and Crowley uncorks it and takes a swig. Aziraphale notices then that he's limping.

"What's wrong?" he asks, worried.

"It's nothing," Crowley says, though the effort of standing still is making him wince.

"Sit," Aziraphale says, pointing to the bed, because he has a horrible suspicion that he knows what the problem is.

Crowley obligingly goes, and Aziraphale kneels in front of him, undoing the laces of Crowley's shoes and pulling them off. His socks are next, and Aziraphale can tell before they're even off that his suspicions were correct. He removes them as carefully as he can, setting them on top of Crowley's shoes.

"Your poor feet," Aziraphale says, feeling a rush of sadness. The soles of Crowley's feet are blistered, looking horribly painful, and Aziraphale doesn't know how he's been walking and driving with all this happening.

"Hallowed ground doesn't agree with me," Crowley says, and he winces as he flexes his toes. "It'll go away after a while."

"Don't be ridiculous," Aziraphale says, and he very gently draws his finger down the center of one of Crowley's feet. It doesn't quite take away the damage, so he does it again, and again, until Crowley's foot looks normal, a healthy pink. He takes the other one and does the same thing, not noticing as Crowley looks at him with some strange emotion in his eyes.

"There," Aziraphale says. "I won't have you suffering because of me."

"You are a balm to my sole," Crowley says, and Aziraphale snorts. Crowley looks tired, taking his sunglasses off and putting them aside. "But that took it out of me."

"Then rest," Aziraphale says, putting a hand on his knee.

"Are you sure?" Crowley says.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Aziraphale says. He stands up, looking down at Crowley; he takes Crowley's hat from his head, setting it down safely. "I don't sleep, but that doesn't mean no one should."

"Alright, then," Crowley says, and his suit jacket and shirt disappear, leaving him in his undershirt. It's just your average sleeveless shirt, but Aziraphale is struck by it, the way it accentuates Crowley's arms, his fine collar bones. Aziraphale's seen him in less, but something about this is different, Crowley unguarded, in Aziraphale's sanctum.

For a moment Aziraphale almost steps forward, almost closes the distance, but Crowley swings his legs up onto the bed and closes his eyes. "Get some rest," Aziraphale says instead, going to sit in his chair and picking up his book.

And like every night, he worries about Crowley and wishes for the morning to hasten.

\--

The apocalypse didn't happen, and Aziraphale and Crowley are moving out of Soho.

They are tired of the city; Aziraphale feels both wretchedly tired of life and newly energized, the knowledge that they are free of Heaven and Hell weighing on him but buoying him at the same time. Aziraphale has found them a house, a cottage really, with space for books and Crowley's plants and just the two of them.

They are moving in together as roommates, and Aziraphale knows that is all they will be. That doesn't bother him as much as it might have; Crowley doesn't need to know how he feels, and even with it, seeing Crowley every day is what Aziraphale wants most. He wants to spend eternity in Crowley's company, in whatever form that will take.

So they are packing up the bookshop. Aziraphale has already sold off or donated the items that weren't of particular interest- none of his first editions, naturally, but there was more than he thought of things he was keeping just because he had them. This still leaves a ridiculous amount of material to pack up, even though it can happen with miraculous speed.

Crowley is presently not helping. He's found a copy of Gardner's _Metaphysical Poets_ and is flicking through it with interest. This one is not actually a first edition, though it is signed; it's just a well-curated collection that Aziraphale likes to read now and again, much more convenient than pulling out the originals.

"Oh, now this is a good part," Crowley says, holding up the book, but Aziraphale is too far away to tell what page he's on. Crowley clears his throat. "Try this one on, angel:

"In such white robes, heaven’s Angels used to be  
Received by men; Thou, Angel, bringst with thee  
A heaven like Mahomet’s Paradise; and though  
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know,  
By this these Angels from an evil sprite,  
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright."

He looks directly at Aziraphale, which sort of makes Aziraphale want to melt into a puddle. His sunglasses have slid down his nose, and he looks at Aziraphale over them, his eyes bright and knowing in a way that makes Aziraphale feel like Crowley can see inside him.

"Licence my roving hands, and let them go,  
Before, behind, between, above, below."

Crowley sighs, closing the book, and Aziraphale sighs too. "The Metaphysical poets really know what was what."

"I wouldn't know," Aziraphale mutters, so flustered that he hides his face in the bookshelf, half-hoping Crowley didn't even hear.

"Why wouldn't you know?" Crowley says. "Seems pretty blatant."

"I've never taken anybody's mistress to bed," Aziraphale says.

"But maybe some young masters," Crowley says, waggling his eyebrows, and when Aziraphale doesn't answer, an incredulous look comes over his face. "You're a virgin?"

"Yes, and I'll thank you not to mock me for it," Aziraphale says, blushing furiously.

"How can you still be a virgin?" Crowley says, still sounding shocked. "You lived through ancient Rome, for fuck's sake. You went to all those clubs for gentlemen of a certain persuasion."

Aziraphale once, and only once, got a handjob from a nice young man at the Hundred Guineas Club, the result of a misunderstanding, but now is not the time. "I really only went to one club, and I avoided the more orgiastic elements of Roman culture."

"Yeah, but it's been several millennia," Crowley says, and it's obvious now that he's not going to drop this, as much as Aziraphale wants him to. "Surely it's impossible to keep your virtue intact for so long."

"Well, some beings do it, and I am one of those beings," Aziraphale says tightly.

"Yeah, but-" Crowley starts; Aziraphale snaps, unable to bear it any longer.

"I was waiting for you," Aziraphale says, and then it's there, hanging between them.

"Oh, angel," Crowley says, in a tone that Aziraphale can't bear.

"I'll just be going," Aziraphale says, even though they're in his shop.

"Why didn't you say?" Crowley says, catching his hands so he can't run. "I would have taken you any old time."

Aziraphale swallows, trying to keep down about a million words, only some of which are _yes, please_. "It's not going to work."

"Why not?" Crowley asks.

"I love you too much to allow some casual fling," Aziraphale says, even though saying it makes him feel miserable.

"I know," Crowley says, as if Aziraphale has just commented on the weather, and Aziraphale just stares at him. "Do you really not realize?"

"Realize what?" Aziraphale says.

"I've loved you for, what, a few millennia?" Crowley says. He looks puzzled by Aziraphale's reaction. "Come on, you've always known."

"I really didn't," Aziraphale says, his voice wavering.

"That would explain some things," Crowley muses.

"We've made a mess of this," Aziraphale says, and he tries to keep in the tear that's threatening to roll down his cheek; he doesn't make it in time.

"Nah," Crowley says, wiping it away with his thumb. "Just moved a little too slow." He tugs Aziraphale forward and kisses him, just once, a light brush of lips that makes Aziraphale feel like he's going to catch fire. "Let me make love to you."

"Right here?" Aziraphale says.

"Right here," Crowley replies. "Consider it a going away party."

"Will you be gentle?" Aziraphale asks.

Crowley kisses him again, on his forehead this time. "If that's how you want it, of course I will."

Aziraphale doesn't speak again, just pulls Crowley into the next room, where his bed is waiting. They haven't started packing any of his personal effects yet, so it still feels like Aziraphale's space, unlike the rest of the shop. Crowley stops them short of the bed, pulling Aziraphale to him, and then they're kissing, so unbearably sweet that it undoes Aziraphale entirely, makes him clutch at Crowley, holding him tight.

And Crowley is gentle, so gentle with him. His long fingers reach deeper than Aziraphale has ever been able to alone, touching parts of him make his body spark with pleasure. Crowley moves them inside of him until Aziraphale is gasping, completely ready for him, begging for Crowley to take him. He wants it, he has always wanted it, but it's never been this acute before, never been so close that Aziraphale could reach out and take it. Each moment where they are still separate is torture, making Aziraphale so desperate that he thinks he'll burn away.

The first push of Crowley inside of him is everything Aziraphale has been waiting for for centuries now. He has thought about this moment for so long, and it dispels the ache in his heart, the pain of every time Crowley was not there, Aziraphale's clumsy fingers trying to approximate him and failing. Aziraphale is crying, but Crowley wipes the tears away, pressing his forehead to Aziraphale's.

"It's just us, angel," Crowley says softly. "Me and you, from now on."

Aziraphale can't do anything but sigh his name and pull him closer. He wraps his arms, his legs around Crowley, needing him closer when they are already joined, feeling like he'll die here if they're separated. Crowley gives him everything, exactly as he wants it, holding Aziraphale to him and murmuring into his ear. Aziraphale has never felt anything like it, physicality and love wrapped up together, when it only ever felt like he could have one.

When it's done, they lie in Aziraphale's bed, Aziraphale resting his head on Crowley's arm. Aziraphale is no longer virginal but feels like he lost nothing; he feels like he has gained immeasurably instead.

"Hold on," Aziraphale says, as Crowley kisses his shoulder; he doesn't pull away entirely, their legs still touching. He leans out of bed and opens the doors on the bottom section of his nightstand, pulling out a box. It is a box of keepsakes that he would deny are Crowley keepsakes, even though it is obvious; he digs through the box and comes out with something wrapped up in a piece of velvet.

"Here," Aziraphale says, and Crowley looks at him in confusion before unwrapping it.

It's a ring, set with a piece of painted ivory and small pieces of jet. It depicts an eye, an eyebrow, and a lock of red hair, as was the fashion; it may be the only one in the world where the eye is bright yellow with a slit pupil.

"I had one of those," Crowley says, holding it up and examining it, not looking at Aziraphale. "Lover's eyes, I think it was."

"I commissioned it, but I couldn't wear it anywhere," Aziraphale says. "It would have been a scandal, even if no one knew it for what it was."

"Lost mine in a fire," Crowley says. "Shame, really. I thought the artist captured you very well."

"That was _me_?" Aziraphale all but squeaks.

"Like I'd get one made of some random human," Crowley says; he lost his sunglasses at some point, and the look in his eyes is somehow amused and disapproving at the same time. "Angel, we're not going to get very far if you act shocked over every time I did something because I love you."

"You'll have to forgive me for needing time to adjust," Aziraphale huffs.

"You could wear it," Crowley says, passing it back to him. "Fancy accessories with a macabre twist are very in right now."

Aziraphale slips it onto his finger; it still fits, though the miniature is larger than he remembered. "It doesn't strike me as macabre," he says. "Though perhaps a bit outre."

"Six of one," Crowley says, and he kisses Aziraphale's fingers, underneath the image of his eye.

\--

The next time they go to bed, it is in their own cottage, with light streaming through the windows. It is, in its own way, as cozy as Aziraphale's room in his bookshop was, though it's more open, less cramped. But there is no place at the cottage for how it used to be, when Aziraphale used to lie sleepless and alone, wanting desperately.

Now when he wants, he has. It's wonderful.

**Author's Note:**

> I was minding my own business when I ran across [an old Atlas Obscura article](https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/lovers-eye-jewelry), and since everything left in my presence for more than two minutes ends up being about the OTP, here we are.
> 
> The poem is [To His Mistress Going To Bed](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50340/to-his-mistress-going-to-bed) by John Donne, because Crowley's into that old time classy filth. And maybe he put a comma in the middle of a phrase, if you follow me.


End file.
